Aceldama
by nightmarekitt
Summary: There's a room in the underbelly of every city where a man waits and cannot sleep. More so than any other, throughout most of his life, was Sherlock Holmes that man. Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Aceldama**

_**[n.] field, or scene, of bloodshed.**_

Synopsis:

_There's a room in the underbelly of every city where a man waits and cannot sleep. More so than any other, throughout most of his life, was Sherlock Holmes that man. _

**Author's Note**

I wanted to write a story that takes place in a setting that I understand very well. If I'm going to write a long post-Reichenbach fanfiction, then by God, it's going to be a good one with information as _accurate _as I can possilby make it. I am putting legitimate effort into this thing and am deteremined to make it as good as I possibly can, because I absolutely adore BBC's _Sherlock_ and I ship Johnlock really, really hard.

Florida was mentioned in the series, which is what gave me the initial nudge to start this thing off from there. For once, I will try to make the location important and a vital part of the story. This is fantastic and convenient, because it is where I am from! This fanfiction isn't going to be some half-assed bit of writing [on my part] for once. Writing post-Reichenbach gave me an excellent excuse to put the characters here, in a place that I could write about accurately and happily. A lot of the settings and details are derived from my experiences and knowledge collected over time.

There will be [and are] Original Characters in the story, because sometimes _more often than not _OCs are necessary to give a story a good, sturdy plot. I've never had complaints about my OCs before, so I'm fairly certain that any audience I may pick up will be content with the decision to utilize OCs. Actually, usually when I put OCs in a story, I have to fight off the masses, because they get rather attached to them.

Another thing I should mention right now is that I AM NOT BRITISH. If you didn't catch on to that before, I am an American, born and raised, from North Florida. I have never been to London, but seeing as it is_was _second on my list of places I must go before I die, I am positive that I will get there eventually. [It is now first on my list because I have already been to Tokyo more times than I can count on one hand.]

My American Southern drawl is very accurate, but my British accent is obviously **very nonexistent**. I don't mind if you Brit-pick, but don't run me into the ground with that crap - just sit back and try to enjoy the story! If you can't, well there's are archives of thousands of other stories to go read. Please indulge yourself _elsewhere_. _**I don't have a beta - the position is open. If you're interested, please message me and let me know. I am very picky, please don't get offended if I turn you down!**_

Flamers will be flamed back. I rarely get flamed for fanfiction, but it is known to happen. Please refrain yourself. When it comes to my writing, I tend to get defensive and pissy and childish. "You started it," is a totally valid excuse.

Reviews are gorgeous, appreciated, and fuel for the figurative fire. The more [constructive and/or positive] feeback that you leave, the more likely I am to go all bubbly and be super-determined to write more.

Chapter titles are going to often be weird and sometimes nonsensical. I apologize in advance for this, but I have an addiction to the english language - obscure words especially. I will most likely include definitions for the weird words I may end up using [such as the title of this fanfiction].

I'm writing this in third person past tense because first person narration is really robotic and annoying! I feel like first person narration can often cripple a story and destroy all of its delicious potential. [An exception to this rule would be something like _The Name of the Wind _by Patrick Rothfuss].

Yes, this is a Johnlock fanfiction. There will very likely be things in this story that many people may find offensive. I'm referring to explicit same-sex relationships. There will definitely be crude language. _I am a legitimate foul-mouthed sailor, thus I talk like one. _The **rating will be M**, because I am paranoid. If you can't handle that, _the exit button is in the top right corner - please utilize accordingly._

For those who actually bothered to read this: I sincerely appreciate your time and attention. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Aceldama**

_**[n.] field, or scene, of bloodshed.**_

Synopsis:

_There's a room in the underbelly of every city where a man waits and cannot sleep. More so than any other, throughout most of his life, was Sherlock Holmes that man. _

**Chapter One**

**Black Ink and Thunderstorms**

Florida is a land of swamps, of unbearable humidity and countless mosquitoes. She is cradled by the ocean, boasting shores of white sand that are constantly battered by the roaring Atlantic. She is loved by the beaming sun and constantly at odds with the raging hurricanes that often ravage her shores. She boasts several cities and a scattering of glittering towns. She is a stubborn state, very proud, and still very wild at heart.

Florida is where the old go to retire, the tourists go to gawk, and where countless outcasts have found their own sort of freedom, even if by undesirable means that scrape the underside of the law.

None more so than Sherlock Holmes.

He would always remember Florida.

-Pagebreak-

It was mid July, one of the hottest months of the year in Jacksonville, Florida. Sherlock had long since acclimated to the heat, the overbearing humidity, and the sporadic weather. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and he could practically smell the oncoming thunderstorm in the air. Florida thunderstorms were like nothing he'd ever seen - violent, ferocious, and unpredictable. Every lightning strike was blinding, every roll of thunder threatened to knock him off his feet. You could always be sure to see the beginning of a thunderstorm, but the end was never in sight until it was already upon you. The locals loved the storms. Sherlock couldn't help but love them, too. It was like watching his own thoughts pierce the sky, one brilliant lightning strike at a time, and then anticipating the fury of said thought in a clash of sound - the distance of the strike, the depth of the thought, the painful _truth_.

Were he metaphorically inclined, he might have also call James Moriarty a thunderstorm. However, James Moriarty - _Jim_ - was long dead. His second hand man was a far more pressing matter, at present. If Moriarty could be called a storm, then Sebastian Moran was the deadly lightning - quick, dangerous, and bound to start a fire.

Sherlock pulled an old t-shirt over his sweat-soaked skin. The shirt was black and baggy, with the fading logo of some big-hair 80s band sprawled across the front. He quickly tugged on a pair of faded blue jeans that were ripped at the knees and a bit too tight around his thighs. White socks and cheap sandals were slipped on with practised efficiency before he vacated the little riverside shack that had served as his home for the past five months.

The Jeep Cherokee was a throwback from the 90s: maroon-colored with chipping paint, factory rilms, and tires that would definitely need replacing soon. The air conditioning barely worked, and the vinyl seats were ripped and stained. The rear-end whined, and something under the hood was always knocking, but Sherlock had learned pretty quickly that if one upped the volume on the radio, most of those worrisome sounds were actually pretty easy to ignore. The previous owner had declared the old Jeep a dependable, stubborn _sonofabitch_ with a sound sytem that would just _rock your world._ The vehicle had once belonged to the man's ambitious teenaged daughter, who had gone off to join the Navy.

Sherlock loved the Jeep. He had no choice but to agree with what the girl's father had blatantly declared about the raggedy old thing: it had _character_.

Surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only white man in Jacksonville who could be seen at a redlight, windows down, arm hanging out, blaring classical music on a friday afternoon. After all, Jacksonville was nothing like London. Americans in general were far more _open_ about their opinions, and far more eccentric, wheras back in London, it was considered politically correct to keep personal matters to oneself. Otherwise was the shape of the city. While London sprawled, Jax was spread wide and thin at the edges. Downtown was a clutter of buildings, very few of them skyscrapers, and a popular riverside marina called The Landing, which sat on The St. Johns River. The St. Johns twisted and turned throughout the city, wide and intimidating, calling to need the use of several large bridges that Sherlock could list all by name, color, and respective interstate number. The St. Johns was one of only four rivers in the entire world that flowed South to North.

Sherlock blared Vivaldi as he made his way across the city, and purple storm clouds began to bruise the vibrant sky. He sped past other drivers, crossed the Matthews bridge, and eventually found himself on Interstate 10. He was on the exit ramp to Highway 90 when the storm finally caught him. Through the pouring rain, he finally reached his destination. Baldwin was in Duval County - basically, it was a small town on the outskirts of Jacksonville, and home to some of the more intelligent, yet low-class criminals in the area. Sherlock parked his Jeep just outside of the old brick building, and by the time he ducked into the entrance of _Jake's Tattoos and Piercings_, he was soaked from head to toe. He shook the water off his hands as his eyes searched the small establishment for its patron.

"Jake," Sherlock eventually said, meeting the eyes of a 40-year-old red-head across the room.

"Ben," Jake said on a laugh. "What the hell are you doing, ya crazy Brit? You're making a mess of my store!"

"Sorry," Sherlock said dispassionately, "but we have do have an appointment."

"No need to rush, man. I know you. Christ, let me get you a towel. Just stay there!" Jake sauntered off to the back and returned fairly quickly. "Shoulda called," the red-head said gruffly, passing Sherlock a hideous, plaid-patterened bath towel. "Coulda rescheduled or something."

Sherlock dried his wild hair, still a mess of curls, but a bit shorter and now a sort of a medium brown, rather than the darker shade he once favored.

"Didn't want to reschedule," he muttered as he dried off. "I need to do this, Jake."

"It's just a bit of ink, ya idiot! It coulda waited."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and for a moment Jake Crews was privvy to the sort of intense stare that the ex-consulting detective had once used to address the employees of New Scotland Yard. Completely unaware of his own actions, Jake actually took a few steps back.

"It couldn't," Sherlock said seriously, nearly whispering in his intensity.

Jake sighed.

"If you say so."

Sherlock nodded once and handed back the towel, now thoroughly damp. Jake retrieved it and nodded towards a black, padded chair over to his left.

"Take the one on the end there. I'll be right back."

Sherlock sat, removed his t-shirt and haphazardly tossed it aside. When Jake returned, he paused for a moment, staring rudely at Sherlock's bare chest.

"What?" Sherlock said, unwilling to put up with such blatant scrutiny.

"Lemme tell you something, Ben," Jake started, his Southern drawl emerging spectacularly as he moved across the room, "my eldest is half your age and weighs twice as much, which is saying a lot, seeing as he's a damn scrawny teenager. Thin as a stick, that boy! My wife would say you need to put some meat on them bones. Do you _ever_ eat? I could count your ribs from across the street!"

Sherlock shifted as Jake slid a folding chair next to the left of where he was seated and started prepping a needle for what he was about to do.

"I don't always find it...convenient to eat."

Jake snorted. "Bullshit. Every man's gotta eat."

"I forget to," Sherlock admitted quietly.

"What kinda man forgets to eat?" Jake asked, soundly truly miffed.

"One who gets distracted by much more pressing matters."

Jake swabbed a spot clean on Sherlock's chest. "Is it money problems?"

"Sometimes."

"And here you are, dropping a hundred bucks on a fucking tattoo."

"Two hundred," Sherlock corrected sharply.

"_One hundred,_" Jake growled. "I ain't about to be accused of ripping nobody off, Ben, especially my friends."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to reply to that.

"You sure about this?" Jake asked just as he was about to lower the needle onto Shelrock's exposed skin.

"Yes. God, yes. More than anything," Sherlock said, and the desperation in his tone was enough to convince Jake Crews to get on with it.

Several hours later, Sherlock Holmes emerged from _Jake's Tattoos and Piercings. _The thunderstorm had mostly passed; the rolling thunder was still present, but distant. The t-shirt that Sherlock wore was still damp, and he shifted uncomfortably in it as he drove home. When he returned to his little shack on the river, he walked straight inside and stripped down to bare skin, the exception being a white, square patch over the left side of his chest. Carefully, he removed the bandage, just long enough to look in the cracked mirror of his tiny bathroom and read the four letters that were now etched permanently into his skin.

Inked in pitch black over his heart was the name that defined Sherlock's entire existence: _JOHN._


End file.
